


Late

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Burning, M/M, Mild torture, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pain, Power Dynamics, Public Humiliation, Stream of Consciousness, Violence, not that dark really, prototype dark mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom makes Abraxas regret being late





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't great and I'm sorry for that

Abraxas was going to be late, it wasn’t entirely his fault, that fifth-year had been awfully persuasive, but still, Tom wouldn’t be pleased. He was an absolute sucker for perfection: everyone orderly, and obedient and systematically organised. Abraxas preferred not to be constrained by things as trivial as rules, anyway he was the favourite. Ever since he’d worked out that Tom had a soft spot for him, he had been dying to see how far he could push it, how far he could go before Tom finally snapped. He had a feeling he could do almost anything he liked, and god did that feel good to know. He loved watching all the other’s faces as he slid into Tom’s personal space. All of them would be hexed into the next century for daring to get so close, to be so presumptuous of their own importance. But _he_ was a completely different matter, _he_ could do as he liked, no matter how unhappy the others were about it.   
Abraxas stopped in the bathroom on the way down, he was going to be late, so he may as well be spectacularly late. He smoothed his hair, pulling a couple of strands out and letting them hang gracefully, framing his face. He would be lying if he said he didn’t know he was attractive. He was easily one of the best looking of his friends, not as nice as Tom perhaps, but then again, no one was, he was an equal to Lestrange maybe, but they were very different. Lestrange was all dark and mysterious, sustained by coffee and cut-throat remarks, he was a little crude if Abraxas was being honest, but Tom seemed to tolerate him well enough. He himself was far more delicate, aristocratic, blue-blooded, and what was the point in hiding it?  
Standing in front of the mirror Abraxas was quite tempted to untuck his shirt, just to see the look on Tom’s face, but thought better of it, he could only take so many liberties, and he had one in mind for today already, besides being late that was.   
He always liked to see Tom’s face whenever he did something completely scandalous. Well scandalous to Tom’s eyes, to everyone else they were pretty tame. Mostly Tom controlled himself, face a measured mask, and mind completely off-limits, but just occasionally he cracked. It was always the small things as well: Tom hadn’t batted an eyelid when he’d kissed Rosier and then hiked his fingers up his sister’s thighs, but when he winked at Avery on the quidditch pitch Tom had looked _almost_ flustered. If he was honest, he didn’t understand Tom, but then again, no one did.   
Abraxas contented himself with straightening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, Tom would notice him like that. No one could deny they had been sidestepping around each other for ages now, and Abraxas was absolutely convinced that something had to happen eventually. It was inevitable, and he would stake his fortune on Tom boiling over sooner or later, or, at least, he rather hoped Tom would boil over, and instigate something Abraxas had been dreaming of for far too long.   
Everyone knew Tom was an absolute dream to look at: eyes so dark and intense and gorgeous. Abraxas would like nothing better than to have Tom against the wall, that silver tongue becoming sloppy, hands wandering, encouraging Abraxas to do what he liked. He’d even tolerate it being the other way around, he’d tolerate almost anything for the sake of Tom. It was a bit sad really, but anyone who patronised him for it had clearly never been near Tom for more than hour, that was all it took for most people to fall in love with him.  
Abraxas really was going to be late now, but he didn’t really care.  
~  
He was twenty minutes late. The room fell silent when he walked in, deathly silent so that his footsteps practically echoed as he walked across the room. His usual space next to Tom was deliberately left empty, so obvious when the rest of the room was full. Tom looked over at him, they all did, waiting to hear his excuse. When he said nothing, the others looked at each other nervously, those who were brave enough flicked a glance at Tom. He was sitting, arms folded, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His fingers tapping ever so gently against his forearm, and everyone knew what that meant. Tom was irritated.   
Tom stood up and waited for him to come over to his usual place, the glare never leaving his face. Abraxas was late, and Tom did not like lateness, and Abraxas had interrupted, and Tom did not like being interrupted. Abraxas strode over to him and stood very close, toe to toe, only a few inches between them. Abraxas was still slightly taller, and Tom had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet his eyes. The room was completely silent, waiting to hear what either of them would say, what Abraxas’ punishment would be; when Mulciber had turned up three minutes late he’d regretted it for weeks. Tom did not forgive lightly, even his favourite had to be put in his place sometimes. Abraxas knew that was what they were all thinking, and maybe he couldn’t blame them, but then again, he was _above_ them.  
Tom surveyed him for a few minutes, that dark dangerous glitter in his eyes. He was just as handsome this close up and Abraxas had an overwhelming desire to touch him, run his hands across him and feel his fingertips scraping the tangible brilliance.   
Tom opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything Abraxas pressed their lips together on a whim. There was a collective intake of breath in the room. No one dared to even touch Tom, let alone place their lips against his own. Almost immediately Tom pushed him and for a split-second, Abraxas was tempted to push him back onto the sofa and climb on top of him. A thread of rationality stopped him doing that though. It didn’t stop him kissing Tom though, keeping their lips together when he could feel Tom trying to get away.   
The tension was tangible in the air when Tom finally managed to push him away, he looked like absolute murder, and for the first time in his life, Abraxas felt a momentary twinge of regret. It was only momentary though because Tom looked so good when he was angry, and dare he say, a little rattled.  
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” said Tom, all the heat had left his voice and now it was uncomfortably cold, and that was far worse. Shadows swathing his features and eyes black and empty, making Abraxas feel like he was staring at an empty shell.   
Abraxas swallowed any remorse, “I was kissing you, Tom.”  
The room dropped several more degrees.   
“Is that so,” said Tom coming much closer again, “what gave you the impression that you were remotely deserving of such attention.”  
“You did,” he said, a little cautiously, this all seemed to be going a little too well. Tom hadn’t hexed him, hadn’t forced himself into his head; Tom hadn’t done anything, and that should really make him worried. The others clearly were, all of them sat in a conspicuous silence, barely daring to breathe and only looking because they were morbidly curious.  
“I don’t remember doing that, Abraxas, but if you’re so keen why don’t you strip for me now?”  
“Excuse me?” said Abraxas not entirely sure he’d actually heard correctly.  
“I said strip.”  
“Here?”  
“Would you prefer the great hall?” Abraxas stayed silent. “I thought not, now are you going to get on with it, or do I have to repeat myself again?”  
There was something dangerous in Tom’s tone, something which definitely suggested this was no longer just a game, so Abraxas complied, it couldn’t be too bad to stand with his shirt off for a bit.   
He hadn’t been wearing his robes, so he started with his jumper, pulling it over his head and folding it carefully. All the while doing his best not to take his eyes off Tom, who was watching intently from the where he was now sitting back on the sofa. He put the jumper on the floor beside him and undid his tie, sliding it from around his neck, watching how Tom’s eyes followed the fabric.  
He was also minorly aware of the other’s eyes on him, some were curious, others were scared to look away lest they incur Tom’s irritation as well.   
He took his time with his shirt, undoing every button and then dragging it slowly across his skin. When he had folded it and placed it in the growing pile, he couldn’t help but pause. He looked at Tom trying to understand if he was truly serious.  
“Any reason you’ve stopped?” said Tom, sounding completely uninterested.  
Abraxas swallowed and bent down to unlace his shoes and tug his socks off. He paused again before finally undoing his belt, fingers fumbling under the weight of their stares. The leather slid from his waist very much like his tie had from his neck, and once again Tom’s interest raised just a fraction. As slowly as he could he peeled his trousers from his skin and glided them down his legs. He couldn’t bear to reach down and pick them up, so he just kicked them towards the pile.  
“Don’t leave a mess, Abraxas.”  
Internally he cursed Tom, cursed every gorgeous thing about him. Externally he bent down and picked up his trousers folding them slowly before placing them in the pile. Then he stood there, far too exposed and far too vulnerable for his liking. Their eyes were burning into his skin, making him want to fold his arms, but he forced himself to keep them by his sides.   
Tom stayed sitting for a while, staring curiously at him, drinking in everything about him. Abraxas didn’t like the look in his eyes: predatory and cruel, the look Tom gave animals just before he killed them.   
After several long and uncomfortably silent minutes Tom stood up, the sticky sounds of his body peeling off the leather emphasised by the absolute quiet. Tom came very close to him, wand drawn. It was enough to make his heart thud heavily and his throat to become very dry, though he wasn’t sure whether it was because Tom could actually hurt him, or because Tom looked like he was about to eat him alive.   
Tom trailed his wand up Abraxas’ right arm, slowly circling his shoulder and scraping along his collarbone, when it reached his neck, it paused for a minute, then began to trace the sinews. Tom smirked as the tip was painfully pressed into Abraxas’ chin, forcing his head back.   
“Who would agree Abraxas is awfully pretty?” said Tom reducing the pressure of the wand against his neck just a little, and slowly starting to walk around him. There was a quiet murmur of approval around the room.  
“Who thinks he deserves to be a little less pretty?”  
There was an awkward silence before Lestrange mumbled an approval, the others followed suit, some even daring to make suggestions. Tom hummed his appreciation and continued to circle him. When he was back to the spot he’d started, facing Abraxas, he stopped, smirk spreading further across his face.   
With a deliberate slowness, the tip of the wand slid down his chest and across his stomach. From this angle, none of the others could see. They couldn’t see how the wand rested on his thigh, or how it hovered above his crotch, or how it pressed against his underwear drawing infuriating circles that had him clenching every muscle and trying not to squirm. They couldn’t see that satisfied smile spread across Tom’s face, or how it made him look absolutely devasting which certainly wasn’t helping anything.   
“Turn around Abraxas,” he said with a smile. He really wanted to hurt Tom then and he probably would have done, if he didn’t know Tom, but _knowing_ Tom meant he knew whatever he did, would only be done back to him worse. He’d watched Tom as he hurt Avery and then fiddled around with his memories of the incident, lying straight to his face when Avery asked why his neck was red raw and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. Tom had had to audacity to take him to the hospital wing and had sat with him until they all said they couldn’t find anything wrong.  
So, he turned around, facing the rest of them. Most of them had the decency to keep their eyes on his face, Lestrange not so much. He dragged his eyes ever so slowly up his body, lingering in all the wrong places and making him feel even more self-conscious, even more, aware that he was far too hot and that his body was betraying him.   
Tom walked around to his left side, fingers now tracing his waist and coming to rest on his left arm. “I want them to see you cry,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear.   
Abraxas swallowed, and the world seemed to slow as Tom gripped his wrist tighter and raised his wand. The pain he felt next was the worst he ever experienced. His arm felt like it was burning, flesh melting. Instinctively he tried to pull away, but Tom wouldn’t let his arm go. Tom was serene in the moment gripping the skin hard enough he was sure he would leave white fingerprints and concentrating drawing a pattern with his wand on Abraxas’ forearm. Completely untroubled by Abraxas’ shaking or shouting or any of the other pathetic noises of pain he was making. Abraxas had seen Tom do this to other people, hurt them so casually, sometimes he even smiled at their tears. Abraxas was trying his hardest not to be one of those, not to be weak. But it hurt, it really hurt. His flesh was being ripped and torn, something digging in almost to the bone.   
He knew when Tom smiled that he must be crying, that those whimpers he could hear must be coming from his mouth. He felt sick watching Tom burn his skin, dissolving the meat so calmly as if he’d been planning this for ages and he’d just needed Abraxas to give him an excuse.   
When Tom finally let go Abraxas fell to his knees, holding his arm and crying, feeling like he was both going to vomit and pass out. Through a fog, he could hear Tom say something to the group. It was muffled and distant at first, but slowly became clearer.   
“I want you all to see this. See and remember what happens to people who don’t know when to stop,” Tom said still with that smile.   
Though his eyes were blurred Abraxas could make out the mixed reactions. At one end was revulsion, Avery still all young and innocent, at the other end of the scale was Rosier, he was smiling almost as much as Tom. He passed his eyes over to Lestrange, he was neutral, intrigued and impressed, but not overly so, curious to see more, but not ready to sign himself up to it all.   
Tom started talking again, but Abraxas couldn’t bear to listen, instead, he forced himself to look at the mess on his forearm, flesh and blood, all red and raw, and so painful. He knew spells that could fix it, they all did, but if he did _that_ , if he could manage to say them at all, Tom would undoubtedly undo all the healing, undo it and then find some more painful way to tear him apart again.   
“So, Abraxas,” said Tom suddenly crouching down beside him, “are you going to apologise?”  
He didn’t want to, but he had to for now. Abraxas wanted there to be a time he could look back at Tom with the same smirk and refuse point-blank to obey, but right now he really didn’t have a choice.  
“I’m sorry,” he said trying his best to glare, but knowing it was offset by the redness of his eyes and his trembling hands.  
“Sorry for what exactly?”  
“For touching you.”  
“And have you learnt your lesson?”   
Abraxas nodded. Tom smiled and glanced back to the others before continuing, probably making sure they were all still listening.   
“I want you to be reminded every single time you look at yourself that you can’t always have what you want, Abraxas. That you can’t touch everything, even with _your_ privileged hands. I want you to look at yourself and see me, whenever your eyes drift you see my label at your wrist. Everyone will see it, and everyone will know, you belong to me,” he said, then he leaned in and lowered his voice, low enough Abraxas doubted anyone else heard, “but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Abraxas.”  
He shuddered still gripping his forearm not wanting to look Tom in the eye, not wanting to see the darkness he loved, not wanting to show Tom just how much he still wanted him.   
Tom stayed there crouched in front of him, his body was blocking most of the view from the others, though most of them, so young and innocent, were probably glad not to have to stare at mangled flesh. Tom’s hand, therefore, was as good as invisible as it rested on Abraxas’ thigh. It was calming, Tom’s fingers smoothing his skin, Tom’s nails scratching, making his skin prickle and distracting from the feeling of needles writhing under the skin of his arm.   
When Abraxas did work up the nerve to look at him, Tom was staring intently. In any other situation, he would have been inclined to think Tom was admiring him, eyes lingering too long on his mouth, fingers still drawing circles on his thigh.   
“You can all leave now,” he said much quieter than before, still not taking his eyes off Abraxas. The others scrambled to leave, all except Lestrange who lingered a little longer at the door, forcing Tom to look up. The look Tom gave him clearly spoke to Lestrange more profoundly than it did to Abraxas. He could sense that Lestrange had seen that look before, seen it and understood the intricacies of what it meant. Lestrange left, the door clicking behind him.   
When they were alone, Tom held out his hand expectantly, “your arm.”   
Abraxas eyed him with what he thought was a justifiable caution. When Tom didn’t move though he eventually stretched out his forearm, even simple movements stretching the skin and making it throb again.   
Tom healed him, well ‘healed’ in the broadest definition of the word. Tom stopped the bleeding and the burning and the stringing and the throbbing, but he didn’t make the mark go away. Now seeing it without all the blood it started to take a shape: a skull and a snake, Tom’s favourite things: death and ambition so intimately intertwined.   
Tom leaned in closer, so close Abraxas could have kissed him but thought better of it this time.   
“You’re lucky that you’re my favourite,” he said running a finger down Abraxas’ face, “if you weren’t this would have been so much worse.”  
Abraxas swallowed, Tom’s fingers were so gentle, nothing like what they were before, so soft and safe. That was what was so wonderful about Tom, he could go from so sweet to so sadistic in the blink of an eye. Abraxas knew he should have hated it, but there really was a thrill to be had from being a hair’s breadth from a painful death. He hoped just for a second that Tom would kiss him, that for enduring Tom’s agonising theatrics he would be rewarded. He wasn’t. Tom only held his chin and smirked, he could see the longing in his eyes and Abraxas knew he was laughing at it. Laughing at Abraxas for being so completely sentimental, so completely infatuated with him that even after having his arm branded, he still wanted to taste him.  
Tom just left him kneeling on the floor while he sat back down on the sofa. They stayed like that, Tom above him like a god and him on his knees like a beggar.   
“Do you want me, Abraxas, want to taste for yourself what I know you dream of. Did it feel good kissing me? Having your delusions come true for just a second? I think it did, didn’t it?”  
Abraxas didn’t give him the satisfaction of replying.  
“If you stay silent, I’ll have to make presumptions. Presumptions that you think about me. That you want me. That you love me. They’re all true though, aren’t they? You’re like a pathetic little puppy begging for attention.”  
“You’ve proved your point,” he said quietly, not looking at Tom, and his smug face.   
“Have I? I don’t think you’re the one who gets to judge that, Abraxas. Unless, of course, you actually reply to me that is.” He leaned forward, “do you want me, Abraxas?”   
“Yes.”   
Tom smiled from his seat in the heavens, clearly enjoying it all far too much. Abraxas watched as Tom leaned back, curving his spine against the chair and slowly spreading his legs just enough to be suggestive. “Care to impress me then, Abraxas?” he said, “as you seem so eager to please.”


End file.
